Christina Davis

Someone enters: That alone makes me speak. When you lived, I spoke to you. We are transitive. I never dream of speech: I either speak or don’t. And now that I know where you will not be— I do not go there.

It was something to let him go. It was a having to believe, furthermore, in the voyage of the other, a Ulysses without an Ithaca, was to speak of the sea without speech of the shore— and to have for a body the going away of the body, to have for eyes the going away of the eyes. And for hearing, a silence, where once were people. And for comfort, a dwelling before each steps into that weather of which all strangers speak.

1 Because he, because she, in so far as she (in so far as he) exists is on the way to battle. Not what is your name, but what the battle? 2 “Each one of us has come here and changed” — is the battle. Born a loved one, borne a loved one. 3 My father fought in this war, thus I can speak of it. My mother fought in this, thus I can speak. My friends, my lovers have fought, have worn (like the tree) their several directions at once. And I, in so far as I can say “I” have fought to be related to these — we strive and strain but also try to ripen the entity of the Other. 4 We kiss on lips, where the tenses attach. We enter the conundrum of another’s becoming. We look for someone who can raise us up again to feet, or near to standing. We tend in our terrors to forget (we do not store them) felicities. I try each day to stay near beings, mornings when I am most mild. And may I nothing harm, in case it is them.